


Respect

by Esteliel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Gangbang, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1880553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb's bannermen decide that cocky Greyjoy needs to be taught a lesson...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AeonDelirium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/gifts).



> Happy birthday AeonDelirium! <3 You are the best and I am so so sorry you get terrible noncon porn as a present. /o\
> 
> A kinkmeme fill for http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/22142.html?thread=14538366#t14538366

His first thought when they came for him, when he woke to rough, large hands on his mouth and on his arms and legs, pulling him from the bed as if he were little more than a pig to be dragged off to the butcher, was that war had found them, that they were under attack, that Riverrun had been taken.

That belief lasted only for a few heartbeats. The men who carried him away with no consideration for his muffled shouts and unsuccessful attempts to break free were talking softly, and he knew them by their voice as well the distinctive Northern dialect. The Greatjon. Galbart Glover – and was that the gruff voice of Karstark?

His struggle intensified at the realization that these were Robb's bannermen. He did not know what they were doing. Had they forgotten that only yesterday, they had sworn their loyalty to the King in the North? Had they forgotten who rode at Robb's side, was brother to him in all but name?

Viciously, he kicked out at one of them as a hand on his leg slipped, and was rewarded with a swat to his arse that made him yelp and seethe as their grip on him strengthened. Whatever game this was, they would regret it in the morning. Or maybe – maybe Robb was the one responsible for this. Was this yet another Northern tradition? There had not been a King in the North for 300 years; maybe someone had remembered a reason to humiliate the Ironborn among them. They had not liked seeing him at Robb's side during the war council, Theon knew that; but Robb was his friend, his brother; his equal foremost, his king after that. If they envied him Robb's friendship, let them; he was a lord in his own right, and when he commanded his father's fleet, he would see if they still dared to mock him, these Northerners who knew nothing of the seas, of wind and rock and salt.

He was dumped in a tent. It was not Robb's tent, though it was large enough to belong to one of his bannermen – the Greatjon's tent, he thought when his eyes came to rest on the Umber sigil. He gathered himself, made to get up to demand answers – apologies, yes, he would have their apologies and explanations, let them see if their thrice-damned Northerner traditions were still so hilarious when they had to explain to their King why his friend had been dragged from his bed in the middle of the night –

A foot pushed him back down carelessly, held him there on the floor, and when he looked up, he found the Greatjon standing above him.

“What do you think you are doing?” he demanded. His voice was just a shade too shrill, so that he snarled in rage to make up for the fear behind his words. The Greatjon did not move, although he smiled.

“How long have you lived at Winterfell now, boy? Long enough to have learned courtesy.”

“What do you think you are doing, _Lord Umber_?” Theon spat out the title, and now the other men in the tent laughed. The Greatjon's smile widened.

“The courtesy your king deserves, boy,” he said, and then took his foot away, so that Theon could sit up at last. “That is why we are here. Lady Stark could not teach you; but then, some things cannot be taught by a lady. War is a man’s business, Greyjoy. Ned Stark should have taught you the respect due a king.”

Theon could not help himself. His lips twisted into a smile, and he stared up at Jon Umber without fear. So this was what it was about. A single careless remark to Robb – the King in the North – while in the presence of others... And so, what did it matter to these lords?

“Robb is still my friend. Take it up with him if you do not like my words,” he said, and this time the old arrogance was back, the fear vanishing beneath outrage and seething humiliation at being carried from his own bed. Ah, he was ever the hostage to these Northerners, but wait until they needed his father's ships...

The Greatjon did not move as Theon got to his feet; he drew himself up straight, his hand feeling for the sword at his waist – but there was no weapon there, he wore nothing but a shirt, they had dragged him right from his bed, and even though he still made himself glower at one of Umber's men that stood at the tent’s entrance, watching with a wide grin, he felt uncertain all of a sudden, out of his depth just like that first day when he had arrived at Winterfell, a hostage, a child parted from the only home he had ever known.

He swallowed, then stared down the man at the entrance. He was Robb's friend – the King's friend. “I'll make certain he hears of this,” he said, and then their hands were on him, and with their laughter and their jests and the careless way they tore his shirt from his body it almost felt like the banter heard during a bedding, if Theon had not spent every moment helplessly twisting in their grasp, snarling with helpless rage and a fury grounded in a deep, nameless fear.

* * *

Theon had not cried for a long time, not since he stood on deck of the ship that took him away from his home. The wind and the spray of the sea had hid his tears then; now, there was no way to hide the wetness that left gleaming tracks on his cheeks as he struggled in the arms of Karstark. They were not careful with him – he had hoped that it was just a game until the very last moment, a charade meant to frighten him, but when Lord Glover lifted an unlit lamp to pour some of the lamp oil onto his bare arse, it suddenly became terrifying reality when he pulled off his gloves and trailed a finger through the fluid, only to force it inside with a sudden thrust.

A sob escaped him, though it was muffled by Karstark's cloak; his struggle intensified, and for one heartbeat he almost thought that he might break free. Then Karstark grabbed his arms and tightened his grip on him until Theon thought he would crush him and there was not even air enough to moan in protest when Glover stepped between his thighs to force them apart with broad legs, his finger sliding in and out, again and again, as if to drive in the fact of Theon's helplessness.

He trembled, wanted to shout and spit at them and kick, but he could not even move – _But I am Robb's friend!_ he thought as he choked, trying to breathe with the wet wool of Karstark's cloak covering his face, and he couldn't even see them, what was Glover doing now, it had to be a game, all of it, they just wanted to scare him, and any moment now someone would–

He cried out when the full girth of Glover's cock was forced inside with no further warning, a sob of misery tearing free as he clawed at Karstark's arms. He could not believe this was happening, that they would do this to him, that they would really do this, and he wanted to curl up and crawl away and hide his tear-stained face somewhere where they would not see him. That was the worst thing, not the pain of Glover's cock inside him, although that was nearly unbearable, but the fact that they were all watching, that they had spread him out here, pinned him down to use him for their sport like some camp follower, that he was a Greyjoy, the son of a lord, and they had thrown him onto a table and ripped off his clothes and fucked him with as little respect as they'd show a whore.

He sobbed into the cloak with every hard thrust, sickened by the way Glover's cock forced him open again and again. The slap of skin against skin was loud enough that he heard it even through his agonized sobs, and the thought of all of them watching Glover use him was almost worse than the violation of Glover's cock plunging into him again and again, stretching him anew with every thrust so that he felt raw and open, clenching around him with red-hot agony.

It was a relief when Glover came at last. When he pulled out, Theon could feel the warm, thick fluids of the man’s release drip down his thighs. He clenched his fingers in Karstark's cloak, hoped that it would be over now – maybe they'd just leave, now that they had had their fun, maybe he could just pull on his clothes again and hide somewhere – bathe in the river and crawl into Robb’s bed as if they were still children, as if this was still a nightmare – but then he was pushed back onto the table and instead of Karstark's chest, it was now Glover's arms that pressed him down, that held him in place while Glover looked down at him, smiling and breathless and flushed from his rutting while Theon wept with helpless, frightened fury when Karstark's cock forced him to stretch around him.

Karstark took his time, and that was almost worse – he was so raw and sore but Karstark went slowly, Karstark was almost gentle, and so Theon shook his head and trembled violently as slowly, inch after inch of Karstark's cock slid inside him, worked him open again while he was helpless and could not do anything but take it. Karstark's hands gripped his hips tightly, Glover's hands were on his arms, and they fucked him like that and he was slick enough with Glover's come that it didn't even hurt as much as it should... That was the worst part of it, there was not even the pain this time to distract him from the violation of Karstark's cock moving inside him, Karstark's grunts of pleasure, and then he was gasping and breathless and arching as Karstark pressed against something that made him whimper and squirm on the table even while Karstark finished inside him.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut when the Greatjon stood and began to unbuckle his belt, but at least this time, no hands came to press him roughly down into the table. Instead, when he finally dared to look up, Umber remained where he had stood, next to the chair Rob had occupied earlier today during his war council, and when he saw that Theon had recovered enough to look at him, he gestured with a hand.

"Come now, Greyjoy. We are almost done. You will want your bed, I am sure; it is late and you look as if you need the rest." A wide smile broke free as he seated himself in the massive chair, legs spread. Theon's throat was dry. He would have sobbed with terrified denial if he could, but he could not speak anymore, it was all too much, they had already taken everything, used him as a man would use a saltwive, certainly they could not ask for more...

And yet when the Greatjon gestured again, impatient now, and Glover took a step closer, Theon slid from the table with a small sound of pain. Not him, anything but him again, he thought and shuddered as he slowly moved closer to where the Greatjon was waiting for him. Glover and Karstark followed, though they kept their distance and did not touch, but their mere presence was enough to make him stumble forward, terrified and hurting. When he was close enough one of them reached out after all and gave his shoulder a shove and he found himself on the floor – right where they must have wanted him, he thought numbly, on his knees right between the Greatjon's spread legs, face to face with the bulge in his trousers that seemed every bit as intimidated as the Greatjon's name promised.

"Since the purpose of this lesson was to teach you respect," the man said, idly pulling open his trousers until the full girth of his hard cock was revealed, "you can show us now what you have learned. And if you have learned your lesson, you can go back to bed, Greyjoy, and you won't embarrass the King again in the future – will you?"

Theon shook his head, sick and terrified and still not quite certain if this wasn't just a bad dream, this could not be happening to him, this had to be a nightmare...

But here he was, on his knees on the cold floor, the stone cold and painfully hard against his knees, raw and aching inside with their come still dripping out of him, sliding down his thighs so warm and disgusting that he could barely keep from retching.

"Right, boy; apologize. Suck my cock and we'll consider the lesson learned, and if you mind your manners in the future we won't have to repeat this again."

Theon swallowed, barely able to keep from flinching away when one of the Greatjon's large, strong hands came to rest in his hair, pulling him closer.

"No," he said weakly and shook his head, horrified – he was so close, too close, he couldn't be meaning – this couldn't be happening –

"No?" the Greatjon asked and laughed, and Theon groaned, new tears welling up in his eyes when the fingers in his hair tightened as he tried to jerk out of his grasp.

"No! I – you can't do that to me! You won't! I'm – I'm Theon Greyjoy!" he said, tried to spit the words into the Greatjon's face with defiance, though they sounded more like a sob. Suddenly he found himself pushed to the floor, Umber risen from his chair with the fluid ease of a warrior despite his size, and his laughter was low and pleased in Theon's ear as he was squashed into the floor by the man’s weight until he could not breathe.

"No, you say? Then there is another lesson needed to teach you respect after all, Greyjoy. Let us see if I am a better teacher than Lord Glover."

Theon squirmed, gasping for air, and when the Greatjon finally moved back a little so that Theon could rise to his knees, he coughed and inhaled great gulps of air, his hands scrambling at the chair's legs for purchase in order to pull himself up and–

The Greatjon's large body came to cover him. Theon cried out, tried to struggle – and then his wrists were captured, he was slammed forward against the carved chair Robb had been sitting in hours ago, and the Greatjon's breath was hot against his neck as his cock slid in between his thighs, hot and so much larger than either of the others had been.

"You're not one of his lords, Greyjoy," he said, his voice slightly breathless now as the head of his cock pressed against Theon's hole. "You don't get to insult him to his face, in the company of his lords. You will not do that ever again, do you understand?"

Theon clawed at the backrest of the chair as the Greatjon slowly sank into him. It seemed impossible at first, unbearable, he was too large, he couldn't...

"That's it, Greyjoy, take it all." The Greatjon's voice was rough, and he laughed a little, breathless and amused when Theon released the chair at last with a sob of misery. One of the Greatjon's arms came around his chest to hold him up, and Theon's fingers clenched around it instead as he was suddenly pushed forward as the Greatjon thrust deeper, another sob forced from his throat as the large cock forced him open.

More sobs of misery spilled from his lips, but the man behind him did not care, and there was nothing he could do, no way to escape the burning heat of the Greatjon's possession of him. The powerful thrusts grew more fluid at last as Theon's body ceased to resist, limp in the Greatjon's arms as he was fucked into the chair that had served as Robb's throne just a while ago.

His tears soaked the velvet cushion, but he gave up his struggles – the Greatjon's arms were strong as iron and held him as securely in place as chains of steel would have, and there was no way to escape, no other option but simply to bear it. He could not stop his tears or the miserable, pained sounds that escaped every time the Greatjon forced himself deep inside, forced him to acknowledge the man's possession of him with the way his body yielded to the impossibly large cock that spread him open with powerful thrusts. At last he pressed his head into the cushion, panted for breath through the tears which the painful stretch around Umber's cock forced from him, and allowed the haze of red-hot pain to carry his thoughts away from this tent, away to the battles they had seen, the days when they had been victorious, when he had ridden at Robb’s side and cheered and smiled and thrown golden coins to whores.

When the Greatjon came with another groan, Theon shivered, squeezing his eyes tightly shut at the way the man’s heat filled him, violated him even deeper, only to drip out of him onto the floor as the man pulled out at last.

Theon did not move. He was too beaten and weary and in too much pain to get up. Instead, he remained on his knees there in front of what had been Robb's throne mere hours before, and when the Greatjon's boot nudged his thighs further apart and the men laughed softly at the sight, he clenched his fingers into the cushion again and thought of Robb once more, and forced himself to remember the pain of the bruises the stone had left on his knees.

Yes, he had learned his lesson well.

He was not one of Robb's lords. He was not one of these Northerners. He was a Greyjoy. He did not sow. And he would not kneel again.


End file.
